The crew looks back at her, dirty and shocked, but she's sure if she asked, they'd put up a hopeless last stand whose ending would never be in doubt.
A short Spaniard takes pleasure in jabbing a pistol barrel against her back as she crosses the plank leading to the enemy ship, the gazes of hundreds of sailors leering at her keen in her awareness. She's pushed towards the aft'castle and the captain's quarters. Inside, she sees a neatly kept office with a secured bookcase, golden candelabras and assorted luxuries, the smell of cloves and cinnamon on the air. She sees a woman facing away from her, staring out of a window, clothed in military garb. She raises a hand, and the sailor with the pistol reluctantly leaves. "You..." The woman says with a pleasant Spanish accent. "Have been quite the troublemaker." She turns.
"Some wine?" She asks, gesturing to a decanter.